


A Mind Such As Mine

by lemmymots



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Gen, Mental Institutions, Psychologists & Psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmymots/pseuds/lemmymots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place between the games Arkham Asylum and Arkham City. The Riddler struggles with an identity crisis, and the innate urge for revenge, all made worse upon discovering a certain conspiracy among the staff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

To see a police car outside the gates of Arkham Asylum was never a rarity. The institute had become more akin to a prison than a psychiatric institute in the last few years. The city of Gotham attributed this, of course, to the arrival of Batman. His quest to rid the city of the crime that was synonymous with its name had backfired terribly. Like a virus, the criminals Batman beat only returned, stronger and in greater numbers, and most of all, more lethal. Edward Nygma had always laughed at the notion of "The Bat-Man" having even a chance to win his one-man war.

Tonight, however, the joke was on him. Bruised and defeated, the Riddler sat restlessly in the back of this squad car. As he was a slender, lanky man, and in any case not particularly prone to violence, the driver saw no need for sirens. In fact, after what every policeman in the city had been through that night, the quiet drive to the Asylum was a godsend for Officer Nolan Preston, even with a domestic terrorist sitting just behind him. Obviously, the Riddler didn't look the part, but Preston and a few officers nearly died navigating the trap-laden building where he had spent the night with a bunch of computers, tracking Batman. Preston and the other men had been up all night "defusing" bombs full of marzipan and kittens, and since nobody on the force would dare touch the Joker, the officers had decided to instead let off steam by collectively beating Riddler into submission. Preston himself delivered a blow with his nightstick to the back of his head, even though the Riddler was already reduced to sniveling madly on the floor.

Now at ease, he regretted the brutality. For four years, he prided himself on avoiding the corruption within the Gotham Police Department. He looked from his rearview mirror- Edward's nose was probably broken, his purple-tinted glasses completely shattered. His bowler hat was off, revealing some blood staining his faded, orange hair. He had since regained consciousness, but for once, the Riddler remained absolutely silent, no expression in his dull, slightly red eyes. He stared through the screen, through the windshield into the woods leading up to Arkham. Preston decided that he would give Commisioner Gordon his two weeks notice that Friday.

Officer Preston and Riddler were well aware of the chaos that had occured at Arkham Asylum, but both of them had yet to see the reality of it. Edward's blank expression was gone. At five in the morning, the asylum was bustling, but not with life. The place was always somber, but tonight, hundreds of men and women were occupied with carting off bodies, both dead and unconscious. Gurneys wheeled madly around- some into the back of ambulances, and some back into Arkham's medical facility. Grotesque plants were littered around the grounds. The statue of Warden Sharp lied in pieces on the ground, and in the distance, some firemen were still extinguishing the front of the Visitor Center. The car stopped with a slight jolt, and Riddler was suddenly taken by two of the asylum guards. Nobody said a word to Preston. Before he turned the car around, he caught a glimpse of a body bag, which had only been partially closed in the haste to get it out. Inside the bag was Officer Frank Boles. Preston recognized the drunk bastard who threatened his family once, after he had overheard a very incriminating phone call. Still, the horrid, green smile plastered on his face would haunt his dreams for a week or so after the drive.

Nolan Preston's two weeks notice was on Gordon's desk the next morning.


	2. Coming Home

By this point in his return to Arkham, the Riddler would normally be ranting indignantly, shouting about the genius of his latest thwarted plot. Tonight, for once, The Riddler was left mostly speechless. As he saw the chaos, punctuated by painted smiles, characteristic of Joker's rampages, all he could do was wonder what the mad clown had done. But even in shock, Edward would not stand for being pulled by his arms through the whole of the asylum grounds. "Stop this, you mindless drones, let me walk!", he protested, beginning to struggle. Both men tugged him along.

Inspecting them, Edward noted that neither of them looked angry or even irritated, as the men assigned to his transportation so often did. Like the driver of the police car-- the ape that beat him with a stick-- these men looked tired, frightened. They had seen a lot that night. The Riddler knew well in advance about the Joker's plans to escape, and he was not so naive as to think he would be doing so without fatalities. Still, not even he could predict anything when it came to the clown prince of crime. Clearly, the Joker had spent the better part of the night running amock in Arkham Asylum. However, there were no signs of anyone having escaped. The Joker was insane, but not stupid; there had to be a reason for him to remain in Arkham. The monstrous plants lying dead in the fields meant that Poison Ivy was somehow involved. The sheer scale of the damage was unlike anything Poison Ivy was capable of before.

Riddler knew that most of the damage could in fact be his own doing. He had fully intended to see Batman run himself ragged that night, trying in vain to solve the riddles so carefully set up everywhere. Edward had personally explored the surprisingly vast secrets of the asylum in his recreational periods, depositing his self-made trophies. He had to bribe some of the asylum's cleaners into spraying his invisible paint, leaving massive question marks right under the noses of the foolish staff. In all, the effort went on for months. Once the game was set, the Riddler would escape behind the madness of the fleeing Joker, and head for the building where his men had finished installing everything he needed to monitor his riddles and trophies. With the obligatory bomb he would use to coerce him, the Riddler planned to gleefully see Batman's mind break trying to solve the riddles. Soon after the night had begun, however, his video surveillance was made short work of, clearly Joker's doing. Because of the madman's circus, Batman was able to cheat his way through the entire challenge. All that the Riddler had worked for was for naught. A night ruined because Batman had immediately resorted to every possible shortcut and every cheap trick. Any trained monkey could be "the World's Greatest Detective" with such an arsenal of gadgets.

On that note, the Riddler found himself being halted. He presumed he was in front of a physician; he was always given a brief, bastardized physical when re-entering the prison. Instead, he looked up to find the warden, Quincy Sharp. It was evident that not even he escaped the night unscathed. His pale, round, balding face was bruised all over, his suit was in tatters, and a bandage was hastily wrapped around his leg. "Edward Nashton: the last man I needed to see. You may take him directly to his usual cell. Thank the lord that building was left operational."

Immediately, the Riddler needed to respond. He struggled against the guards for a few seconds, saying loudly and confidently, "Warden, perhaps you find yourself in shock, so I will excuse your inability to remember. Let me assure you that my name change was done entirely legally, and I will thank you to honor it. My last name is Nygma. That's 'NYGMA' with a 'Y', not an 'I'. I'm sure you can sound the rest of it out." He was ignored. Sharp simply groaned, and wiped his sweating brow with a handkerchief as Edward Nygma was brusquely hauled away.

Now approaching the familiar holding cells in Intensive Treatment, Edward noticed the Blackgate inmates were all left nearly catatonic, no doubt by Batman. It would be a long year, sharing Arkham Asylum with not only the usual band of lunatics, but these buffoons, dumped there after the Joker burnt down Blackgate, the correctional facility, weeks earlier. When he arrived at his cell, he was at least consoled to find that his cell was kept empty for him. He prefered to keep to himself while incarcerated, and in any case, hardly anyone could stand to be in his company for very long. The cell was spacious enough, by prison standards. Still, it was deplorable, even before any destruction. The bed was stiff, of course; rather than bedposts, it was held up by bolts in the wall. The tiles were cracked, and falling off. The walls were stained, and marked with green question marks by the Riddler. There were even some green footprints, from one particularly unbearable night. The guards let him go gently, and he slowly paced forward into the cell. "Dr. Cassidy will see you." With these sole words, the men left.

Sure enough, Edward had only a few minutes to himself before he heard the rubber shoes of Arkham's medical uniform, accompanied by the stomping of another guard. A young, redheaded woman soon stood outside the bars of his cell. She held an orange bundle; Edward's new uniform. The guard opened the cell, and she walked in. Her hair was in a messy bun, and despite her efforts to conceal it, it was obvious she had cried a great deal. Riddler had not seen much of the psychiatric staff in his days at Arkham. He had certainly never seen this Dr. Cassidy. He looked up from his bed, inevitably into her eyes. He couldn't prevent himself from seeming taken aback, but he collected himself quickly, dismissing the woman with an apathetic sniff. She handed him the jumpsuit, and began speaking in an uneasy voice. "Hello. I am Doctor Sarah Cassidy. I'm part of the psychiatric staff, I will be conducting your therapy from now on, Edward." The Riddler's eyes widened for a second, realizing instantly that this meant Dr. Young had been killed.

He exhaled. "My condolences. Why tell me this now? Who else is still here?", he asked, not for her sake, but for his. He wanted his return to go quietly this time. Still, he listened attentively.

"Mr. Cash and I are the last ones left from the night shift. I was just about to leave. I wanted to meet with you first." She shuddered. "I can see you two weeks from now." Riddler scoffed at the notion of staying more than three days.

"Yes, of course," he said, his voice unabashedly sardonic. She attempted to smile at him, before turning towards the door. At the last moment, he called out to her, "You know: if there had been a more intelligent effort, the Joker would never have gotten out in the first place. It's only logic that he should choose to stike here. But I am... sorry, for the loss, Doctor Cassidy." The last thought came out feebly, and to no avail. Cassidy took to trying to control her shaking. She controlled her sobbing tremendously well, but still heaved silently. She paced quickly away. Behind his riot mask, the guard grimaced at Riddler. He locked the door, and turned to escort Dr. Cassidy out. As he left, he bitterly spat at Riddler he words he hated the most to hear:

"Welcome home, Riddler."


	3. Damage Control

Edward wasn’t someone who held too much stock in reflection. He didn’t like to look behind himself. He was, in short, a man always in search of solutions, which kept him in the moment. To him, there was no use for regret, and nothing more self-destructive than obsessing over the past. Regretfully, having spent, cumulatively, two or three years behind bars at an insane asylum, Edward had no choice but to look at himself and wonder why it was that no one saw the truth in his philosophy? Why do the citizens of Gotham City elect to remain in the ignorance that chains them? Why do they prefer stupidity to his help? How there is time to reflect in this prison. Of course, every time these questions crossed his mind, the line of thought ran to the same conclusion: there was but one man standing in his way.

He truly wasn’t obsessed with Batman. The Riddler never dwelled too much on his defeats at his hands. As brains go, of course Edward was the clear winner. Anybody could win in a match of wits if they clobber their opponent, too dense to understand the nature of the game. The World’s Greatest Detective had shown time and time again that he can only think with his fists. If ever it had come to a mere mental battle, how The Riddler would stand triumphant. He didn’t hate Batman for foiling his plans. He despised him for failing to see the importance of brains over brawn, for disrespecting intellect, and for insulting his intelligence. He resented being spun into the villain of the scenario because the people of Gotham would rather sit in their homes, basking in the filth of their ignorance, submissive to their corrupt elected officials, than heed the advice of the Riddler and find the illumination to be better. Most of all, he unfathomably hated being the smartest man locked in Arkham Asylum.

And yet, he found himself once again inside the confines of the Intensive Treatment facility of the asylum, in his usual cell. Few criminal inmates of Arkham had permanent cells. Even the Joker was currently locked, unconscious, in an isolation cell adjacent to where he had been just the day before. What made Edward so special as to deserve the honor of a special cell was that, during his first stay at the Asylum, he had acquired a large amount of green paint. As it turns out, painting worked wonders for his psyche. As anxiety grasped him during his first incarceration, Edward used to find solace in painting the question marks meticulously on the walls of his room. This escalated into painting his riddles all over the walls of the asylum, and it became a new problem altogether. In a fit of fury on one occasion, he marked the walls with his green-stained footprints. Now it is easy to locate where to stow The Riddler when he returns.

In any case, it’s a prison of cardboard, everyone knows that. How could one take a prison seriously if it cannot hold its prisoners? It brought to mind the good old riddle: when is a door not a door? This time, he estimated, it would take two weeks to leave – tops. In his orange prison jumpsuit, Edward sat perched atop his bed, now sneering again. Yes, two weeks, tops. He’d be back in action before even a single sitting with Dr. Cassidy. Empowered by his resolution, he laid back in his bed and fell quickly asleep; less from resolve than from several blows to the head.

An excruciating headache waited when he awoke the following morning. He ran a hand through his hair to feel where the blood had crusted over. A quick glance around showed that at least he wasn’t alone. The cells around him were full of thugs, all wearing clown make-up, all as bloodied and broken as him. Most of them were even worse. Looking at a roomful of clowns in casts, a laugh escaped Edward, to his dismay. Immediately they came down upon him. They inched menacingly toward him, as much as they could from behind the WayneTech electrified bars.

“The hell are you laughing at?” It was hard to tell who said it, as they all looked about the same and were pretty compact in the cells. “You think you’re better than us? I could kick your ass right now, broken arm and all, you scrawny crap!”

“Well, why not then? If you feel so up for it, I’m right here. Just take a few steps forward.” Head pounding, face bloody, legs shaking, Edward was still always ready to pick a fight against brutes such as these. He stepped up and poked his face through his own, traditional steel bars.

“These gates went down last night, you bet your ass they’ll go down again, and you better believe I won’t think twice before getting over there and bashing your tiny head in,” the man snarled as he inched dangerously close to the electricity. The Riddler perched upon his bed again.

“Oh, believe me, you thinking twice was never a concern. I’m not the one here with the tiny head. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ve got a splitting headache,” Riddler retorted in his melodic circus-barker tone. He laid face-down, trying to drown out the raucous swearing of the men.

What felt like morning was actually around 12:47pm. For obvious reasons, the asylum had been understaffed that day, and no guards or orderlies appeared to wake him up. There was only one guard posted by one of the entryways, barely conscious, lucky to be alive. Watching the confrontation between the prisoners, his hand tightened around the grip of his rifle, but he didn’t move an inch otherwise. He didn’t loosen his grasp, not even after the Riddler retreated to his bed.

Outside the asylum, a mob was forming. All of Gotham’s media outlets were present, as well as a couple from surrounding cities. Vans and reporters flocked to the large, iron gates, where two guards stood on both ends. A small wooden podium was posted in the center of the gate; it was the same one that was always taken out after incidents at the asylum. News vans, men and women with microphones and cameras now stood silent. Although no one at the time had been broadcasting, the cameras looked around at the absolute destruction that pervaded. The crews from all networks were in stunned silence, holding their breaths awaiting the warden.

Standing in the back of his ’77 El Camino as was his habit, Jack Ryder stood tall among the crowd of news people. He could see through the crowd, and into the asylum grounds, where it looked like a dilapidated circus straight out of a horror film. In the midst of silence, soft as it was, the sound of “Holy shit” broke the silence. Ryder was met with some irritated faces.

The gates slowly creaked open. Warden Sharp was so quiet that no one even noticed he was on his way out until he was already at the podium. The poor man had a head like a bruised orange, his thinning hair was only barely combed decently, and his eyes told of unspeakable fatigue. Jack Ryder knew the face of a person recovering from trauma all too well. The sound of Sharp’s microphone pierced the silence like a starting gun. Like racehorses, the newspeople began their clamor. Thousands of questions at one time shot into the air, as the masses who had flocked to get some answers drowned each other out. The warden was tempted to yell at them to shut up. He cleared his throat in a dignified manner, but then wheezed and coughed violently into the microphone. The awkward silence soon returned.

Sharp muttered through a prepared statement that the microphone could only barely make audible to the crowd. “‘At this time, we can tell you that the events of last night were the result of a riot incited by the Joker. He has been apprehended and incarcerated by Arkham staff, and remains detained in isolation.’” As he gulped to relieve his dry mouth, the uproar interrupted. He cut them off, continuing, “‘in the aftermath of the conflict, we count the casualties at 123 fatalities, including 64 guards, 14 inmates, and 45 other staff members. Nearly all the survivors are wounded and receiving medical care—some are in critical condition. We will release the names of the victims as we ascertain them. The asylum staff will be given medical leave while the asylum goes through repairs.’” He sighed. “I can take questions.”

By now, the reporters were ready to storm the gates. They came to a fervor, shouting out questions. Jack Ryder stood with one hand in his pocket, the other fiddling with his phone. With predator eyes, he stared at Sharp, but said nothing. The warden pointed at the obvious favorite of Gotham reporters. Vicki Vale, dressed in a sharp, red turtleneck and a trenchcoat, took a step forward. “Warden, you’re not addressing some major concerns here: How did the Joker get out of your custody? He had only just been taken in by Batman. And what about--”

“One question at a time, please, Miss Vale. Joker escaped with the help of his accomplice, Harley Quinn. The two had help from a guard member, Frank Boles.”

“And where is Boles?”

“Dead, Miss Vale. Officer Boles was killed in the conflict.”

“Okay, but wh--”

Sharp pointed in the opposite direction. The man from Metropolis’ Daily Globe. “The footage released from the incident shows a monster, clear as day, about ten feet tall and five feet wide, looking exactly like the Joker. It was fighting Batman. What can you tell us about that, and Batman’s role in the events of last night?”

Some hesitation from Sharp. “We can confirm that the beast you’ve described was the Joker. He was under the effect of a chemical we cannot identify. We cannot comment any further.”

Every answer he gave brought up dozens of questions, of which he answered one at a time. As this process continued, Jack sat in his car, drinking coffee and eating a breakfast sandwich he had stowed in the glove compartment. To appease sponsors, he had a camera rigged on the roof of his car; he had a perfect shot of Sharp through the whole interview, of which Jack had quickly grown tired. He checked his watch. It had been thirty-five minutes. He rolled down the window to listen in again, and it seemed like the Q&A was coming to a close. He stuck his head out the window to burp, and then opened the door to climb onto his car.

“We will release more information as it becomes available. I thank you for your—“

“Warden Sharp!” The entire crowd turned back to take another look at Jack Ryder. This time, Jack looked back, defiant and confident, standing tall, megaphone in hand. The feedback squealed, and then he continued. “This massacre has happened under your supervision, your leadership. That’s a fact. How does this affect you when the mayoral elections are only a few months away?” Ryder let a beat go by, and then deliberately pronounced the follow-up, the big question. “Will you withdraw from the race?”

Sharp's eyes narrowed, he clenched the edges of the podium. The fatigue left him as his blood pumped, his face grew hot. Ryder’s face remained smug and defiant, but he was a few seconds from shrinking back before Quincy’s glare softened, and he answered just as deliberately, looking Ryder right in the eye. “My campaign will carry on. I will take a week’s leave, then return for the remainder of the election season. This conference has finished. Thank you all.” He descended from the podium, and walked back through the gates. His hurry in leaving made his limp more noticeable. Cameras were stored and vans began to roll out as the large gates shut. Ryder put his camera into the passenger seat and got into the driver’s seat. He waited inside while the rest of the vans left the scene.

Finally, the last van was on its way out, and he followed it out. Without warning, it stopped; The Gotham News 4 van had effectively cut him off. Vicki Vale emerged from the van and sauntered over. “Well, Jack, that was some show you put on. If you hadn’t left Gotham News, you may have had an audience for that tonight.”

“Screw off, Vick. Don’t be pissed at me just because I scooped you from my show; on the radio. Haven’t you have some pregnant zoo animal or something to cover?”

“Jack! This isn’t about our ratings! Don’t you care about this at all? Were you even listening? There’s more than a hundred people who are dead, and you pop out from under your bridge here asking horse race questions!”

“It was a damn good question! Most people would never show their face in Gotham again after crap like last night, this asshole thinks we’re gonna let him be mayor! I’m not having it!”

“That’s real big of you, Jack, this is a step up from your usual TMZ crap.” Jack groaned at her. “Oh, what? You’re expecting me to buy into this political pundit crap you’re cooking up?”

“Look, believe whatever you want, but don’t count on me to back you if you’re planning on brownnosing this guy, won’t even give you two straight answers in a row. Jesus, what, is he paying you for this conversation?”

“I’ll have you know Sharp is actually giving us an exclusive interview on his campaign.”

“Ha! That explains it!” Jack cackled in her face. She smirked back at him.

“Also: I’m not jealous of you being the first to tell people Batman died last night. I’d be a little embarrassed seeing that footage proving you wrong.”

“Gee, you cut deep, Vick. I’ll be sure to cry about it watching you on YouTube when I look up ‘Funniest News Fails.’ Jack Ryder signing off! Watch your toes now.” She took a few small steps back as he reversed, his wheels screeching. His Chevy maneuvered around the Channel 4 news van. He stuck his left arm out the window, having decided to give Vicki Vale exclusive footage of his middle finger as he peeled out.


	4. Arkham Care

Stephen Kellerman had chosen to forgo time off from Arkham, despite the insistence from Aaron Cash. After a day of pacing about his house guiltily, he walked into the Intensive Treatment building at 9:00 sharp, two days after the Arkham Incident. The new warden was there too, directing construction workers and new security officers. Warden Cash looked unspeakably pissed off talking to all these people, but he just rolled his eyes as he caught sight of the doctor reporting in. 

“Did you really drive all the damn way out here after I told everyone to…” he sighed. “Doc, really—you need to take a break, for your own sake,” Cash tried to reason. “We got more than enough medics to take care of these Blackgate thugs.”

“Mr. Cash, do you expect me to just stay home while my patients are sharing space with the transfers, feeling like prisoners, especially after last night? They need me now more than ever!” 

“Doc, they are prisoners. And some of them tried to kill you last night. Some of them, it ain’t even their first shot at you. The last thing we need right now is to give them another.”

“Aaron, I can handle myself. Look, at least let me assess the damage to my own patients. I owe them that much.” 

Cash sighed; this time, more pissed off at Kellerman. “Fine, Stephen, you know what? We need somebody to take some of Dr. Young’s patients.”  
Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. He still couldn’t believe Penny was dead. He couldn’t believe what she had created, what she did with Joker. But in spite of what he had learned, of all the colleagues that were killed last night, Penelope stung him the most. 

“Oh. Alright, Aaron.”

Stephen sat in his office, perusing the files of all his new patients; at least, he assumed most of them would be his now. A great-looking group of people, mostly. Nobody appreciates that Arkham wasn’t just a prison for the psychopaths who went around killing and terrorizing people, the ones the Batman delivered again and again. Most people in Arkham are just people who need help. Stephen never lost hope. Even after Pamela tried to bury him alive. Even after the former Dr. Crane gassed him with fear toxin. The people in Arkham—the real Arkham—were just average people who had lost their way, and Dr. Kellerman came into work every day, hoping he could help them find themselves again. Fortunately, of all the Arkham residents he had already met with, most had not been seriously hurt. He looked forward to talking with them. Most of them, anyway. 

At 4:37, Kellerman’s door opened, and in came the scrawny, red haired inmate, looking like he had lost a fight with a polar bear. He took a seat without uttering a word. _Damn,_ Kellerman thought, _I didn’t know Penny still had him_. Edward eyed the new doctor—he had never seen him before, in any case—and gave him his very best Riddler smile, blood notwithstanding. 

“Tell me, Doctor, where do you keep your oxycodone? I really am in a foul mood so if you could just give me something to relieve the pain of police brutality, I can be on my way.”  
Kellerman smiled back, even as his mind seethed. “Edward Nygma, right? It’s nice to finally meet you.” Stephen extended his hand. The Riddler looked at it and dreamily rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, I imagine it would be. I presume Dr. Young and you have talked at length about my cunning and intellect?”  
“…She spoke of you, yes.”  
Edward giggled and put his legs on the doctor’s desk, almost in front of his face.

“Hardly a surprise. Well, as nice as it is to be appreciated, I really must insist you simply prescribe me what I have specified so that I may rest, and you may further reflect upon having finally rubbed shoulders with the preeminent mind in the city.”

Stephen furrowed his brows. “Well, Edward, I’m afraid I have to follow some procedure here, if you’ll bear with me. Since you’re actually being processed as a Penitentiary patient, I have to take some extra steps.”

“Don’t bother! I’ve already mentally noted the entire process! Look, here is my condition as it pertains to your paperwork: excruciating headache, left radius fractured. Lacerations about the clavicles, all obtained last night at 4:23 AM. I am usually assigned to Cell 1 in the Intensive Treatment holding block. Now, Doctor, ibuprofen will suffice, if you’d please.”

Kellerman didn’t even bother lifting his gaze to Edward anymore. He jotted down the prescription in his pad, and tore it off for him. He extended it towards him, looking him in the eye, trying to hide his exasperation. “Edward, take as many of these as you need.”

Riddler removed his feet from the desk, and swiped the paper from the doctor’s hands. “I thank you, Doctor… Kellerman,” he said, finally deigning to read the name on the desk. “I look forward to speaking to you in the future.”

He opened the door, swaggering out. He tipped his invisible hat to Kellerman before closing the door.  
“Jesus Christ,” the doctor muttered.

A day later, the Riddler was disappointed to discover that Kellerman had refused to accept him as a patient. He had accepted 13 of the late Doctor Young’s 27 patients, and Edward Nygma was left to whomever was the last to arrive. As it happened, Sarah Cassidy had been granted an additional week’s leave, making her the fortunate one. How Edward cursed that cowardly dunce Kellerman. His first true interview of this incarceration would have to be delayed until the return of this Doctor Cassidy, now nineteen days away. The Riddler took solace in the hope that Cassidy had some genius, heretofore unseen. The mere glimmer of hope for an intelligent conversation elated Edward. He mentally noted the days, fixating his mind on the day: February 8. If nothing else, he would have an opportunity to enlighten another poor, simple person. Doctor Cassidy had appeared to him to be an open-minded woman. Open, if empty. Perhaps he would be pleasantly surprised. If not, he would nonetheless take pleasure in detailing to her the ins and outs of his impeccable mind. It was win-win, Edward’s favorite type of scenario. 

Until then, he had nothing to do but wait. _I’ve spent my life isolated mentally from the entire world. Two more weeks will be nothing_ , Edward mused, sitting cross-legged on his bunk. In fact, Edward could use the time off. Refresh his mind, concoct some more riddles. His body swaying, he rubbed his hands together, and thought. _RIDDLE ME THIS_ , he began… before coming up blank. He tried again, meditating for a solid minute before grunting in frustration. Reasoning that a little motivation would help, he pretended for a second. _Oh, poor, idiotic Dark Knight. Of course I will allow you to live, if you answer this riddle. Are you ready? No? Well, too bad! RIDDLE ME THIS, BATMAN…_  
_RIDDLE_  
_ME_  
_THIS!_  
…Damn, he concluded. It was going to be a long three weeks.


End file.
